Hot Chocolate and Sympathy
by New Konoiche
Summary: Second in a series of vignettes about Hannah and friends in college. Hannah and Jessa have an argument
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Jessa's POV:

It was all a mistake. I know a lot of people probably want to believe that I somehow meant for it to happen and that maybe I just wanted the attention, but those hypothetical people would be 100% wrong. It's definitely not like I've never made mistakes before. Quite the opposite, in fact. But this is not really the same as when I accidently forgot what day my philosophy final was scheduled for and had to drop the class even though I was scoring a B+ for the semester or the time when I forgot to pay for sparkly black nail polish and sugar-free gum at Claire's. It's definitely a completely different species of mistake than the hundreds of times I accidently swore in front of kids I'm babysitting. It's not even the same as when I accidently drank an entire glass of Tequila I found in the fridge the morning after my ex-boyfriend's 18th birthday party because I mistakenly believed it to be water (after all, what the hell was it doing in the fridge in the first place?) No. This mistake is different. It's one of those little, seemingly stupid mistakes that has the potential to really, really matter: maybe even to destroy my entire life.

If I'm honest, the real mistake was befriending Hannah in the first place. After all, if I hadn't gone out of my way to reach out to her freshman year, second semester, I would never be in such a ridiculous mess in the first place. When I first met Hannah in Art History, I had already become weary of the whole college experience. First semester, since I had declared as an Art Major, most of my classes contained the same twenty people, all of whom I pretty much hated by December. It probably sounds cliché beyond belief, but my classmates all reeked of being hard-core poseurs and wannabe hipsters. And even worse, every one of them seemed to truly believe that everything they said or did was the most profoundly important thing in the history of existence. In their minds, even though they were just starting college, they were already fabulous artists.

Yeah, sure, I suppose I was somewhat hipster/poseurish too last year, but at least I realized I wasn't really an artist. I wasn't a poet or a philosopher or writer or actress, either. Truthfully, I wasn't anything. And I was starting to wonder if college was even right for me in the first place. At that point, I was contemplating dropping out in favor of backpacking through Europe or becoming a full time ski bum. Mum and Dad would probably be stoked not to have to shill out all this money for me to go to school in the US. Anyway, on the first day of Art History, Hannah sat by herself, a large grin plastered to her face. She seemed completely unaware of anyone else's presence. Her hair was styled in a short mushroom cut and hidden under a floppy baseball cap. She wore a baggy sweatshirt on top of overalls and seemed to weigh almost 200 pounds. I'm not saying that to be mean, either. That's literally how she looked. My poseur/hipster classmates gave her disapproving glances and whispered, but she stayed contently oblivious. My first thought was that I had never seen anyone so confident, especially not in freshman year of college. My second thought was that I just had to get to know her; had to learn her secret. You see, for all my displays free-spiritedness, I actually cared a shit ton about what other people thought. So did most of my classmates who envisioned themselves as "bohemians," I assume. But not Hannah. She truly operated as if she was the only person on the entire planet. I both envied and admired her for that.

Of course, I later discovered that Hannah's smiley, aloof behavior was because she suffered from severe depression. At first, as bad as this probably sounds, I was kind of disappointed that she wasn't actually uber-confident and together. Later, however, it occurred to me that her sadness made her deeper than most people had I encountered in college so far. A lot of people probably wondered why the hell I tried so hard with Hannah freshman year, second semester – after all, her aloof behavior often bordered on rude. It's not like I didn't have other friends. Quite the opposite, actually. I was pretty much never alone. But I felt that Hannah understood me in a way no one else really did.

I guess I was wrong.

Truth be told, I was a pretty massive bitch about the whole betrayal incident. Immediately after Hannah sold me out, I Unfriended her on Facebook, deleted her contact info from my phone and refused to answer her calls or texts. I avoided her in real life, too, pretending not to see her when we crossed paths on the way to class (which even then I realized was immature and horrible). I did not, however, delete her phone messages. Any of them – and it seemed like there was an endless amount. At first, she was apologetic ("Jessa, please! I'm really, really sorry. It was a horrible thing to do! I really, really hope you can forgive me. Can we please just talk?"), then, she switched to worried ("Hi, Jessa. It's me. I know you're still mad, but please call me back! I just need to make sure you're okay.") Then, finally, she got pissed. The last message, which I've listened to more than once because I'm apparently at least partially masochistic, went something like this: "Okay, Jessa: fine. If this is the way you want to be about it, than I guess I will just say: screw you! I know you're pissed, but I only did it because I was worried about you. You can't just treat people like this! You can't just shut me out. So, I guess I'm sorry for trying to help you. Don't worry. I will never do it again! Have a nice life, Jessa." This message made me tear up every time I listened to it. Hannah just didn't get it, though. She didn't understand that when I discovered she ratted me out, it felt like actual, physical pain in my chest: like someone had stabbed me through the heart with an icicle wrapped in barbed wire. As melodramatic as that undoubtedly sounds, I just couldn't bring myself to call her back after that.

"Jessa?"

I snap out of my reverie and shake my head quickly.

"Your mind seems to be elsewhere," the therapist says. "What are you thinking about?" He looks intently at me with his dark blue eyes, his eye brows knotted in a permanent worried expression as if he constantly thinks someone is about to kick him in the nuts. He makes me uneasy, to put it mildly.

I sigh heavily and stare back at him. "Look, I know we have thirty minutes left," I say, "but I really think it would be a lot easier on both of us if we could just agree that this is a mistake and that I don't need to be here. I'm sure your time would be better used on someone who really is having a psychological crisis." Personally, I think I sound very mature, but I somehow doubt Dr. What-ever-his-name-is agrees.

He stares at me for a good five seconds, and then clears his throat. "Jessa, you do know why you're here, don't you?"

I grind my teeth together so hard my jaw starts to ache. "Yes," I say tightly. "I'm here because my so-called friend Hannah is a goddamn traitor."

"She was worried about you," he says.

"She knew I didn't mean it."

"Jessa," he says again. Therapists love repeating your name over and over and over until you are sick of hearing it. I know this because I had to go to one in high school after Dad split and Mum had her nervous breakdown. "You said you wanted to kill yourself," he says calmly. "A suicide threat is something that needs to be taken seriously."

"Well, I obviously didn't mean it," I repeat. "I was upset and I was drunk and stoned out of my gourd. And I said it as a joke. Hannah should've known that. She did know that!"

"Why did you say it, Jessa?" asks the therapist.

"I just told you," I snap. "Because I was high! It was just a really stupid thing to say, okay? Haven't you ever said something stupid that you didn't mean? I mean, hell, doesn't everybody?"

"Okay," he concedes. "How about it I rephrase it? You mentioned that you were upset. What were you so upset about?"

My blood runs cold. For some reason I didn't expect him to go there. The reason I was so upset last week was because Mum backed out at the last possible second on her promise to come visit me for Family Weekend. I am well aware of how criminally stupid that sounds. In fact, I was shocked that it even bothered me at all because I hadn't exactly been looking forward to her visit. I was actually kind of dreading it. But, when she called the night before Family Weekend to say she unfortunately couldn't attend, I was, well…I don't even really know how to explain it. Although Mum and Dad are paying the big bucks for me to go to school here, neither of them has come to visit even once. And I can probably count the number of times they called, just to check up on me, on one hand.

Not that this is anything new, of course. It's pretty classic Mummy Dearest. Pretty classic of both my parents, actually. It reminds me a bit of the time my dad showed me up on my thirteenth birthday. He was supposed to meet me at some crappy amusement park: Fun World, or something equally lame. I waited for what seemed like hours while creepy carnival workers stared at me sympathetically before I finally gave up and walked home in the pouring rain. When I got back, Mum, who had apparently forgotten my birthday entirely, didn't even look up from The Real World. "Jessa," she snapped, her eyes still glued to the screen, "you're trailing mud on the clean carpet. Take off those boots!" Even when I replay the event in my head, I realize the whole thing sounds made-up, almost like I borrowed it from some sad, old fashioned story about a poor abused kid. Maybe it was made-up – fabricated in my mind after reading Harry Potter and Jane Eyre and A Boy Called It a few too many times. On the other hand, I remember that in Psych class, we learned about how there is no difference between what the brain remembers and what it actually sees. So, if I remember it in such vivid detail, doesn't that make it real? At least in a sense?

I don't want to make it seem like I'm too neglected by my family, though, because even though neither Mum nor Dad have ever been to see me, at least I have Mum's perfect younger sister who lives in the States with her wealthy Jewish/Italian husband and their perky teenage daughter, Shoshana. The Shapiros invited me for Thanksgiving last semester, just like they had freshman year. But, although freshman year's dinner had been nice enough and Shoshana had certainly seemed to like having me there (poor thing must be bored as hell with only her parents for company on holidays), I still felt like I was intruding the whole time. I may have been the life of the party, but, still. I just didn't fit. So, this year, at the last second, I called the Shapiros and told them I was sick. Then, I hid in my dorm, watched The Simpsons Thanksgiving Special, ate a turkey sandwich (because, apparently, you must have turkey on Thanksgiving – it's a rule) and sobbed an incredibly ridiculous amount. Honestly, I'm not even sure what made me cry in the first place. Maybe I was prone to nervous breakdowns just like my mother. All I know is, the next day, when my suite mates returned, I had thankfully (heh) returned to normal.

"It was dumb," I say to my therapist now, trying to keep my voice light. "Just family stuff, really."

He rubs his chin, thoughtfully. "Yes, your friend Hannah said something about an argument with your mother."

Of course she did. "Really?" I ask. "You've been talking to Hannah about me? What else did she tell you?"

"Not much. Just that you were really distraught over it and that she was afraid you were going to hurt yourself."

"Oh, okay," I say sharply. "Well, that pretty much sums it up, then. You pretty much know the whole story. I guess that means I can go. Why don't you just talk to Hannah about it instead? She clearly knows exactly what she's talking about."

"I'm sensing some aggression," the therapist says, which ugh. I'm glad the school is paying for this guy's beyond brilliant analysis.

"No shit, Sherlock," I mumble.

He stares at me quietly for a few seconds.

"Okay, fine, what do you want me to say? That my mum is a bitch and I've been neglected all my life?" Even though I say this sarcastically, I feel tears form at the back of my throat. I hate crying in front of strangers. Actually, scratch that. I hate crying in front of anyone. Scratch that, too. I just hate crying. Period.

"Do you feel neglected?" he asks.

Obviously, yes, Einstein, I do indeed feel neglected. That's why I just said it. However, quite separately from that, I'm also starting to feel extremely lightheaded, like my brain has somehow disconnected from my spinal cord. But I suppose that kind of makes sense, if I think about it. Because even though I can remember pretty much everything I had to drink over the past few days (two Corona Lights, a Mike's Hard Limeade and a Whiskey Sour last night and a mug of straight black coffee this morning), I cannot for the life of me remember when or what I last ate. On the other hand, I definitely remember exactly when I slept last: Sunday: the day before my fight with Hannah started. That was three days ago. Maybe I really do need professional help.

The therapist is scribbling something down when my attention jolts back to him.

"What are you writing?" I ask.

He continues staring down at the notepad. "Well, Jessa, I can see that you aren't super enthusiastic about talking to me. That's fine, but I really think you would benefit from talking to someone. It doesn't seem like you're in any real danger right now, but I feel like there's a lot going on with you that you aren't saying."

Brilliant. Glad they gave this guy a degree to come up with gems like that. I roll my eyes and reach for the paper.

"And these are?"

"Those are some names of other psychologists," he says. "I really hope you get in touch with one of them. And preferably as soon as possible."

At this point, I can no longer bring myself to even pretend to be polite. "Whatever," I say under my breath.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

I can't really remember much about the Friday night I told Hannah I wanted to off myself. It's mostly kind of a blur: a disgusting, rancid, nauseating blur. Things started out normally enough. Hannah, her boyfriend, Elijah (who always set off my gaydar, but I never had the heart to mention it to Hannah) and a few of my theater friends started the night with a round of drinking games. Then, Elijah's roommate arrived with a stack of pot brownies. Halfway through stuffing her face, Hannah remembered that she shouldn't mix pot and alcohol with her OCD meds, so I finished her brownie, which, in retrospect, was probably a pretty awful idea. I'm certainly not a lightweight by any stretch of the imagination, but even I have limits. And that night, well, let's just say I went light years above said limits. Around 2 in the morning, my theater friends had to leave in preparation for the arrival of their parents early the next morning for Family Weekend.

"Oh, that's right," Hannah said, acting unusually perky and sociable due to the unholy combo of pot, alcohol and OCD meds. "My parents are coming too. They aren't getting here until late afternoon though."

"Well, mine aren't," I said. "They aren't getting here until…ever."

"Wait, what?" said Hannah. "I thought you said your mom was coming all the way from England."

"Nope. Not anymore. She decided…f*** it…at the last second."

Hannah put her hand gently on my shoulder. "Oh, Jessa. I'm sorry. I know you were looking forward to seeing her."

I rolled my eyes. "No big deal," I said, trying to keep my voice light and airy. "I'm sure it would have been awful anyway." But my response sounded feeble. It was a big deal and Hannah and I both knew it, even though I had not been look forward to seeing Mum. My chest suddenly felt so tight with anger and sadness that I found it nearly impossible to breathe. Tears leapt to my eyes, but I blinked them back. It would have been awful to have my mother here on campus for a whole weekend, I reminded myself. After all, she would probably do nothing but complain about my dorm's lame selection of cable channels. "You know what her reason was?" I asked. "For bailing out, I mean?"

Hannah shook her head.

I gave a sharp, cold laugh. "It was because she's supposed to have someone come to install a new water softener on Sunday. I guess she forgot until now. A water softener!" I began laughing hysterically and Hannah joined me, but I eventually had to stop because I felt sick. "A water softener is more important than me." I said this part quietly, almost in a whisper.

"Oh, Jessa, no," Hannah said weakly, still laughing a little. "Don't say that!"

But there was really no denying it. I hadn't seen my mother in almost two years and my father for at least twice that long. And I had to wonder: what kind of a person is so horrendously awful that her own parents happily ignore her for two years? What kind of a person matters so little that her own father forgets her thirteenth birthday and never calls to apologize? How awful am I that my mother completely ignored the fact that I was sopping wet after being stood up by Dad and in danger of potential pneumonia?

"Maybe if I killed myself she would care." At first, I wasn't sure I said it out loud, but then Hannah let in a sharp gasp. "Well, maybe," I added, ignoring her appropriately shocked response. "Or maybe she would just be pissed that she would have to fly all the way across the pond for the funeral. Maybe I just should. Off myself, I mean. It's not like anyone would miss me." At that point, I broke into hysterical, unstoppable tears.

"Jessa…" Hannah said helplessly, weakly draping her arm over my shoulder. The next part of the conversation I have no recollection of: I honestly blacked it out. Hannah probably said something along the lines of "you're not worthless" and "lots of people would miss you," but I'm sure I wasn't really hearing any of it.

Hours later, at around 6 in the morning, I had finally regained my senses. I splashed water on my face and dried my red-rimmed eyes. "I'm so sorry for keeping you up all night," I said to Hannah, who quickly shook her head. "Um…so," I added, "about what I said earlier…about…You know that was just a joke, right? I was just kind of caught up in the moment. I mean, I would never really…"

"Oh, yeah," Hannah said quickly. "Of course you wouldn't. I know you were just having a…dark moment. It happens to everyone. Believe me, I've been there." She gave my hand a tight squeeze. "You're going to be okay now, right?"

I nodded resolutely. "Yeah, absolutely," I said. "I was just being a whiny crybaby.

I still felt as awkward as hell, though. Even though Hannah and I had had lots of deep conversations in the past where I divulged various details about my absentee parents, I had definitely never broken down so completely in front of her. I still felt physically shaky and weak, as if something deep inside had snapped. "So, are we okay?"

"What? You and me?" Hannah asked, sounding surprised. "Of course we are! Please don't worry about it! You have nothing to be embarrassed about." She gave me an awkward hug – Hannah was never much for physical contact. "You're going to be okay, you know, Jessa."

I blew my nose. "Yeah, I know. I am. I really am."

And I really, truly thought that was the end of it. It seemed to me like Hannah and I had made an unspoken promise to never mention it again.

Although I don't remember much of that night, I definitely recall the Monday after in perfect detail. Hannah and I were in Women's Studies class that morning and she seemed unusually cheerful – manic even – as she recounted what she and her parents did over the weekend. Then, right before the lesson started, a tight-faced, very official looking woman entered the classroom and whispered something to Mrs. Stein. We all watched with morbid curiosity, wondering if some had died. Then, Mrs. Stein pointed at me. "Jessa," she whispered, motioning for me to come forward. My pulse raced and electricity coursed through my veins. I glanced over at Hannah, who seemed determined to avoid my gaze. I stood up slowly as everyone's eyes bored into me – at least, probably – I wasn't actually paying attention to anything except for the loud, horribly uncomfortable pounding of my heart and the staticy ringing in my ears. The woman at the front of the room put her hand gently on my shoulder. "Jessa? Hi, I'm Miss _" (I didn't catch her last name). "Do you think we could step outside the classroom for a second?" Something had happened. One of my parents had died. Why else would she have been looking at me so delicately?

"W-what's wrong?" I asked shakily, once we had left the classroom, but I didn't really want to know the answer. Really, I just wanted it to be a bad dream.

Gently, Miss _ told me that I was to go to the psych ward of the hospital immediately until it could be determined I wasn't a danger to myself and after that, they highly (highly, highly) recommended I check in with a school therapist. It was also recommended that my parents should be contacted, but since I was nineteen, they couldn't force that particular issue.

I only stayed at the hospital for a few hours that day, after convincing them I was sane, agreeing to see the school therapist ASAP and promising to call 911 if I felt even the tiniest bit suicidal again. At first, I just felt dazed and shaken up, but as soon as that wore off, I was furious. Why would Hannah do that to me? But more than that: why had I told her that? I should have known better than to open up to her like that. And, in the darkest recesses of my mind: the worst possible thought of all: what if I had meant it?

My mind is reeling as I leave the therapist's office and enter the biting, humid January air. I realize, suddenly, that I miss Hannah. She is the only one of my friends who has ever seen a psychologist (actually, psychologists: plural) and I bet she would have a field day with all the stupid things mine just said. Maybe it is finally time to talk it out with her. I walk toward her dorm, fear bordering on terror coursing through me. I am not one to get in fights if I can help it. Yes, I can be aggressive and confrontational as hell with people I don't know, but arguing with someone who I actually care about is a completely different matter. My basic instinct has always been to run way and to shut people out when emotions start running too high. I guess Hannah knows that now, based on how I've blatantly ignored her since Monday in Women's Studies. As I approach her room, part of me hopes she won't be there and that I can delay confrontation. I take a deep breath and knock.

Hannah's roommate, Marnie, opens the door. Great. Just perfect. I wouldn't say that I dislike Marnie, per se, but she definitely annoys me with her extreme stuck-up prissiness and perfectionist tendencies. As exhausted as I am, I have no desire whatsoever to deal with her today. And I definitely don't want her around when Hannah and I have our deep conversation.

"Hey," I say, peering inside their incredibly well-organized room. "Hannah's not around is she?"

"No," Marnie says. "She went to the library. She'll probably be back soon, though. Do you want to come in?"

No. No, I certainly do not. But, I suppose it couldn't hurt to wait – plus it would be rude not to take her invitation.

"Yeah, okay," I say.

We stand in silence for a second.

"Yeah," says Marnie. "She just stepped out to the library. She should be back any minute. I think she just had to return a few things. She didn't really say, though."

"Yeah, I know. You said that…like two seconds ago," I remind her. Ugh. I look down at my cell phone for the time. I have class at 2, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to skip again.

"Yeah," says Marnie again. "Yeah" seems to be her favorite word. It occurs to me that she's probably mad at me, as I assume Hannah has told her all about it. Marnie may be a stuck-up goody-goody, but she's definitely loyal as all hell to Hannah.

"Okay," I say awkwardly. "Well, could you tell her I was here?"

"Yeah, yeah, for sure," she says, not looking at me.

"Cool, thanks," I reply.

"WAIT!" Marnie shouts, just before I open the door. Terrific. Here comes her big spiel about how I'm being completely unfair to Hannah and how I should give the poor girl a chance. But instead, she grabs something off the shelf. "Um…do you maybe want one of these chocolate biscuits? My dad got them on his last trip to Germany. I don't really like them and neither does Hannah, so I've kind of been trying to pawn them off on anyone who visits." None of this is particularly surprising (aside from the lack of a lecture about my meanness/unfairness to Hannah, that is). Though I rarely hang out with Marnie, I have noticed that she loves to talk about her dad, who, to hear her tell it, shits rainbows. She also pretty much never eats anything (Hannah can attest to this too), so I'm not shocked she hasn't touched her German chocolate biscuits even if they were a gift from her amazingly awesome precious father's vacation. But, of course, she would definitely never even consider throwing them out, since they had belonged to her daddy.

"Um…okay," I say. I take a bite into it, allowing it to dissolve in my mouth and am suddenly reminded of how desperately hungry I am. "Not bad," I say.

Marnie rolls her eyes. "Guess it's an acquired taste," she says. For a second, I'm worried she poisoned the biscuits. She certainly is acting suspiciously. Well, I guess I can't really say I know her well enough to determine if her behavior is suspicious, plus maybe the fact that I'm so out of it is making me read it as weirder than it is. I'm suddenly acutely aware of my state of exhaustion from the lack of sleep and food. Shoshana has this thing called Hypoglycemia, which means she gets shaky when her blood sugar is low. I'm starting to wonder if I might too – maybe it runs in the family. I suddenly feel like I'm going to faint, so I sink down onto Hannah's bed and lean my head back against the wall.

"Hey, are you okay?" Marnie asks.

"No, not really," I reply, closing my eyes.

"Yeah, I guess not. Sorry. Pretty dumb question. Do you want something to drink? Some water? Or tea?"

"Yes, definitely," I say. "Maybe Whiskey. On the rocks."

Marnie raises an eyebrow. I guess I forgot what a total spaz she is. Apparently, she's never heard of sarcasm.

"What?" I say, "Its five o'clock somewhere in the world."

"I know!" Marnie shouts, ignoring my hilarious comment. "I have just the thing. You'll like it, I promise!" She returns from the kitchen and hands me a mug with a couple of overly cheerful and overly Christmassy cartoon raccoons.

"Hot chocolate with a peppermint teabag," she states. "My dad always used to make it for me when I was growing up. I know it sounds gross, but it's actually really, really good. It…I don't know. It always used to make me feel better when I was having a bad day or whatever." Oh, of course. Her dad. Who else? But it actually is kind of good, surprisingly enough. Though a shot of Whiskey certainly wouldn't hurt.

"Not bad," I say, looking down at my hands, which have stopped shaking.

"Yeah?" she says, smiling almost shyly. "Well, good. I guess. You feel any better? Less woozy or whatever?"

"Starting to, yeah," I say, which isn't exactly true – at least not yet.

She clears her throat. "Hey, Jessa?"

"Marnie?"

She rolls her eyes and huffs. "Um…look…I know Hannah can be kind of a chore to deal with sometimes. Believe me, I totally understand being pissed off at her."

I'm pretty surprised. Is she really, honestly and truly taking my side?

"But she means well," Marnie continues. "I mean, her heart is always in the right place."

"That is such a gross expression," I say. "Where else would her heart be? In her butt?"

Marnie sighs in exasperation. "Yeah, whatever. Can I finish?"

I roll my eyes dramatically. Sometimes I have no idea why I insist on acting so bitchy. She is going out of her way to be nice to me, after all. "Yes, sorry. Please continue."

"I really don't think she meant to hurt you, is the thing," she says. "She was honestly just worried. And she feels really, really terrible about it. I don't know the whole story or anything," she adds. "She's barely said anything about it. But I do know she's really hurting right now too."

"Right," I say, "so I should forgive her, is what you're saying."

Marnie bites her lip. "I don't know," she says. "I just…please don't take this the wrong way or anything, but I think maybe you are overreacting a little."

"Oh do you?" I say, putting the Raccoon Mug down. "And you're the expert? I had to go to the Psych Ward because of her."

"She made a mistake," Marnie says. "And you have to admit she kind of had a right to be worried."

"Says the person who wasn't even there." And of course she wasn't. I have to wonder if she has ever been to a party in her whole two years at school.

"What would you have done if you were her?" she asks.

"I would've known she wasn't serious," I say.

Marnie just shrugs. "I don't know," she says again, which is something else she loves to say, along with "yeah." "But now answering her calls? Unfriending her on Facebook? Pretending you don't see her in class? That's pretty cold."

But I don't have time to respond because we hear the sound of a key turning in the door and Hannah comes in.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Hannah's POV:

It's no exaggeration to say that Jessa saved my life freshman year, second semester. No, I was not in any danger of actually dying, but my life would certainly have remained a lot more miserable if she had never approached me in Art History. Something very odd happened as soon as I returned from Winter break that stayed persistently with me all semester like a large, black shadow. Calling it depression doesn't really suffice, because I'd been depressed before and had never felt even a fraction as strange – and that's really the only way I can describe it - strange. I can't even say the term "anxiety" quite covered it. You see, second semester of freshman year, I lost my voice and along with it, my personality. Every time I tried to speak or even thought about talking in front of people, my pulse would race, my whole body would become drenched in icy sweat, my head would spin and a vomity feeling would climb up my throat. In fact, I was terrified that if I even opened my mouth, I would barf uncontrollably, even though I rarely ate during the semester. I was so used to keeping my jaw latched firmly shut that I was plagued by a constant and severe tension headache. Unfortunately, even on the rare occasions I did manage to force words out of my mouth, said words were monosyllabic and generally made no sense whatsoever. For example, I still recall with a sense of dread the time all I could come up with to say to my rightfully worried Creative Writing professor was "cock-a-doodle-doo." It was weird because I knew I was smart (my SATs were in the top percentage of my high school class), but I just couldn't get my brain and mouth to cooperate with each other. For this reason, I was sure I seemed rather "special" to most of my classmates.

At the beginning of the semester, the thought of even going to class made me want to throw up, so I was kind of proud of myself for attending Art History on a semi-regular basis. After all, it was a completely elective class that had nothing to do with my Creative Writing degree. It was a pretty okay class, comparatively speaking, because you really didn't have to talk, just look at slides and watch videos. However, I still felt uncomfortably out-of-place, sitting off by myself while the cool kids chattered about their various art projects. Although no one paid me any attention, I still felt like the entire class was constantly judging me for being a friendless loser. At that point, if I'm honest, I was pretty damn intimidated by Jessa. Like the other art majors in the class, she came across as ridiculously sophisticated and her British accent only added to this impression. She also had that air of confidence to her common in extraverted girls – as if everything in life came super easy to her.

On the second week of class, Jessa dropped all her stuff on the table next to me. I tensed and tried my hardest to avoid eye contact. "You know, you always seem so cheerful," she said as I kept my eyes on my hands folded across my lap. "How do you do it?" she continued. I finally realized that she was talking to me when I discovered we were the only two people in the classroom. Was she being sarcastic or something? She sounded sincere, but, then again, I've never been much of an expert in the art of sarcasm detection.

"Cheerful?" I managed to get out. "No. I'm sad." That was definitely one of the longest sentences to come out my mouth in quite some time and it left me feeling drained.

"Sad?" Jessa repeated. "Then what's with the shit-eating grin? What are you always smiling about?"

_Smiling_? I thought. Was I really? After she said it, I made a habit of studying myself in mirrors and found that Jessa's impression was correct. In spite of my profound depression, I almost always had a demented, completely unintentional grin on my face.

Jessa continued her monologue. "Well, I'm sorry that you're sad," she said. "But I've always thought you seemed really admirable. Just so shiny and happy! Every time I see you, I'm just like: wow! What is her secret?"

All I could say to that was "oh."

"You just seem like you don't give a damn what anyone thinks of you," Jessa said. She paused for a minute. "I like you."

My stomach clenched. "Oh," I said again. Where in the world was she getting this from? All I ever thought about was what people thought of me.

"You don't talk much, do you?" Jessa asked.

Of course, she was stating the obvious, but I responded with: "nope" just to make it seem like I wasn't completely rude or antisocial.

To tell the truth, though, I really wished she would go away. Why was she even talking to me? My first thought was that one of her artist friends had put her up to it as a joke and that they would spend the next couple of days laughing at me behind my back. But later, I realized that despite her light, airiness, Jessa didn't actually have any friends in the class. Like me, she was always alone in Art History.

Not too long after our initial meeting, Jessa and I became friends, although most of the effort to maintain our relationship was on her end. I know from an outsider's point of view it probably seems like a relatively small thing, but the fact that I had one friend (that is, besides Marnie, who, let's be honest, probably only put up with me because the housing office randomly placed us together as roommates) made a world of difference. Just knowing that one person liked me (who wasn't required to, that is) made me feel like maybe I wasn't actually worthless or boring or lame. So, that's why, as soon as the opportunity arose, I jumped at repaying the favor.

People have always told me that I tend to worry about kind of ridiculous things, but Jessa's behavior last week was legitimately troublesome. The night she told me she wanted to kill herself, everything was going smoothly until one of Jessa's theater pals (whose name I don't remember – I honestly had never seen the guy before that night) mentioned that he had to get up early the next morning because of Family Weekend. Family Weekend is kind of a big deal at our school – so big, in fact, that there are two of them: one in October and one during the beginning of January (because it isn't like we just spent over a month with our families for Christmas or anything). During that wet, hazy week of January, I was mildly looking forward to seeing my parents. Before sophomore year's first Family Weekend, I had been nervous as hell, worrying that my parents wouldn't like my friends or would lecture me about my grades, but, in the end, it had turned out okay. Of course, I was also slightly buzzed that fateful night (in contrast to Jessa, who was completely wasted), which also went a long way in taking the edge off my fears of parental judgment. I was also aware that Jessa's mom was coming all the way from England and I had to admit I was kind of curious to finally make her acquaintance after hearing all of Jessa's horror stories.

"Oh, that's right," I said to Jessa's random theater friend. I was feeling surprisingly calm and confident that night due to both pot and alcohol. I'm normally not much into parties and generally like to leave early, but that night I was actually kind of bummed when it was over. "My parents are coming, too," I told the group. "But they aren't getting here until late afternoon."

"Well, mine aren't," Jessa piped up, sounding bitter. "They aren't getting here until…ever."

"Wait, what?" I said. "I thought you said your mom was coming all the way from England."

"Nope. Not anymore. She decided…f*** it…at the last second."

I awkwardly put my hand on her shoulder. "Oh, Jessa. I'm sorry. I know you were looking forward to seeing her."

Jessa rolled her eyes. "No big deal," she said in a tight, teary voice. "I'm sure it would have been awful anyway." But I could tell she was really on edge about it. I've been told on multiple occasions that my people-reading skills leave something to be desired, but I knew there was no way in hell that Jessa actually believed what she was saying.

"You know what her reason was?" Jessa slurred. "For bailing out, I mean?"

I shook my head, not sure I really wanted to know the answer. Jessa had told me about how her mom had an excuse for everything. Case in point: the time she missed Jessa's piano recital because their dog was sick.

Jessa laughed angrily and gave me a hard look – at this point, I realized she was kind of a mean drunk – I had never noticed before because she's hardly ever drunk due to her ridiculously high tolerance for substances. I had no idea why she was in such rough shape that night, but it definitely alarmed me. "It was because she's supposed to have someone come to install a new water softener on Sunday," Jessa continued. "I guess she forgot until now. A water softener!" She began laughing hysterically and I nervously joined her. But the laughter stopped abruptly and her face grew serious. "A water softener is more important than me." She said this part quietly, almost in a whisper.

"Oh, Jessa, no," I said weakly, "Don't say that!"

"Maybe if I killed myself she would care." This, she said even quieter. My heart dropped into my stomach and my blood went cold. "Well, maybe," Jessa continued, ignoring my shock. "Or maybe she would just be pissed that she'd have to fly all the way across the pond for the funeral. Maybe I just should. Off myself, I mean. It's not like anyone would miss me." At that point, she started crying. Not just crying: sobbing, actually: her whole body trembling uncontrollably. She almost seemed to be wracked with physical pain, as if something had broken deep in her. She was hyperventilating, too. As someone who has had more than my fair share of panic attacks, I'm almost an expert on detecting them in other people. And that night, Jessa was having a really, really bad one – one that made even my worst look insignificant. I thought she might pass out – as that happened to me once during a severe panic attack. Despite my extensive experience with panic attacks, however, I couldn't really think of what to say or do besides awkwardly rubbing her back.

"That's not true and you know it," I said, once she had caught her breath. It came out sharper and louder than I had intended. "Lots of people will miss you. Jessa, please tell me you didn't mean that!"

She sniffled loudly. "I don't know, Hannah," she said. "Maybe I did mean it. I don't…I don't even know anymore. Sometimes I just feel so tired of everything…and so worthless." She didn't sound angry or hysterical anymore at that point, just completely drained.

"You're not! Worthless, I mean. Look, I understand how you're feeling, but please don't…don't think that."

She shrugged and looked away from me.

"JESSA!" I grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. Slowly she lifted her eyes, which now looked glazed-over and unfocused from fatigue. "Tell me you didn't mean it!"

"I don't know," she mumbled. She put her hand to her forehead and swayed. "I think I need to lie down," she said. And then her whole body went limp and she folded. I barely caught her before she collided with the floor.

Elijah had been working on his daily food blog when I banged on his door. "Hey, Elijah?" I asked.

"Everything okay out there?" he asked. Clearly, he had heard most of the conversation, but Elijah is a good enough guy not to interrupt. He and Jessa don't really know each other, after all, so his presence would have made things pretty uncomfortable (as if they weren't uncomfortable enough already).

"You think Jessa could lie down?" I asked. "I don't think she'll be getting home tonight."

Elijah hastily jumped up from his desk. "Of course," he said.

Jessa was out cold for several hours after that. Alcohol and pot combined with a full-blown anxiety attack really takes a lot out of a person. Drool pooled up on the pillow. I really hoped Elijah had good laundry detergent.

"Is she going to be okay?" Elijah asked.

I leaned against him. "I…I don't know. I've never seen her get like this before," I said. "I'm really worried about her. Some of the things she said…I think she might have actually meant them. Like that she wants to kill herself, for example."

Elijah shrugged. "Well, she's probably just in a really, really dark place," he said. "Besides, from what little I heard, she didn't say she wanted to kill herself, just that maybe she should to get her parents' attention."

I shook my head. "Okay, you know, I really don't appreciate you eavesdropping, Elijah."

He gave me a wide-eyed, innocent look. "I wouldn't call it eavesdropping. It was kind of hard not to hear."

"Okay, whatever." I felt myself getting frustrated and I hated getting frustrated with Elijah. We usually got along so well. In fact, he was more like a friend than anything – someone I had fun with and felt comfortable talking to. I felt bad for Marnie, whose relationship with Charlie was constantly wrought with tension. I had really, really lucked out in the boyfriend department.

"But mental illness does run in her family," I said. Jessa had told me about her mother's various nervous breakdowns and now I was almost convinced she had inherited some of the crazy. Not that I was judging, mind you. How could I judge anyone for being mentally unstable after my behavior freshman year, second semester?

Elijah and I weren't able to sleep after that, so he made us a huge stack of strawberry pancakes and coffee. He had always been an excellent chef. At around 6, Jessa emerged from Elijah's room. She looked hung-over, but calm – normal, even.

"Hey," I said gently, handing her a mug of black coffee. "You…okay? Are you feeling better?"

"A little," she replied, grabbing the mug and sitting across from Elijah, who passed a stack of pancakes to her.

"Good hang-over food," he said. "Bon-a-petit."

Jessa took a huge bite of strawberry pancake. "This is good," she said with her mouth full. "Shit," she added. "I'm so sorry for keeping you up all night." I could only shake my head. "Um…so," she added, "about what I said earlier…about…You know that was just a joke, right? I was just kind of caught up in the moment. I mean, I would never really…" She sounded slightly embarrassed, but mostly light-hearted, as if she were a completely different person than she had been a few hours ago.

"Oh…um, yeah," I said quickly. "Of course you wouldn't. I know you were just having a…dark moment. It happens to everyone. Believe me, I've been there." I gave her hand a tight squeeze. "You're going to be okay now, right?"

Jessa nodded resolutely. "Yeah, absolutely," she said. "I was just being a whiny crybaby. So," she added, after taking a sip of coffee, "are we okay?"

That came as a surprise. Did she think I was mad at her? "What? You and me?" I asked. "Of course we are! Please don't worry about it! You have nothing to be embarrassed about." I gave her an awkward hug. "You're going to be okay, you know, Jessa."

She blew her nose loudly on a napkin. "Yeah, I know. I am. I really am."

But even after we both left for our own respective dorms, my sense of concern lingered. What would happen if she got like that again? And I was almost certain she would. Breakdowns are rarely, if ever, a onetime event. So, right before my parents arrived in town, I called the campus psychologist and reported that I was worried about my friend. And then, I continued to worry – even as my parents joined Marnie's family at a Broadway musical (I think it was Wicked, but damned if I remember anything about it) and as my dad and took a hike in the wooded area near campus (luckily, my dad is very similar to me in terms of reading people and didn't notice how out of I was). But, in the back of my mind, despite my extreme sense of unease, I knew I had ultimately done the right thing. Jessa was my best friend, even though I seldom gave much back and, moreover, she was (and is) a genuinely good person. So, even if this ended our friendship, at least she would be getting the help she needed.

When Jessa found out about my betrayal, I expected to get in a huge fight with her – maybe physical violence would even be involved. What I had not bargained on was her completely icing me out and acting like she had never known me. As it turned out, Jessa had a lot in common with her parents, after all.

I return from the library feeling slightly more cheery than I have for the past couple of days. Marnie keeps insisting that I leave the dorm. I think she's worried that we might get a repeat of second semester, freshman year (and she isn't completely wrong in her assessment). Although I was only at the library for a few minutes, I have to admit the fresh air definitely did me some good.

I open the door and there is Jessa, sitting on my bed as if she hasn't spent the past few days pretending I don't exist. "Hey," she says, standing quickly.

A sense of relief washes over me, but I harden my expression. "What are you doing here?" I ask coldly.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Marnie nervously turns her attention to me. "Sorry," she says (she is always apologizing, it seems). "I told her you were coming back soon."

I nod stiffly.

"Um!" says Marnie. "Well, I promised Charlie I would help him clean out his fridge today, so I guess I should," she points to the door, "yeah." What a fun activity, I can't help thinking. Most likely it will involve some kind of argument about how Charlie neglected to throw away rancid food. Unless, of course, she's making the whole thing up as an excuse to leave me and Jessa alone. Marnie isn't always the easiest roommate to have (to put it mildly), but, like Elijah, she has been pretty great about this whole mess.

After Marnie makes her exit, Jessa and I stare at each other for what seems like a whole minute. My heart hammers in my chest and my stomach writhes. I briefly wonder if she read any of my text messages. Some of the later ones were pretty mean.

"So," Jessa says lightly, "I can see why no one likes these German chocolate biscuits from Michael Michaels – yuck! I still can't believe that's the guy's name!"

I narrow my eyes. "Yeah," I say coldly, "I somehow don't think you came here to make fun of Marnie's dad. What are you really doing here? You completely ignore me for almost a week and then think we can talk about trivial things like chocolate biscuits? It just doesn't work that way, Jessa."

Jessa smiles weakly and sits back down on the bed. "Look," she says tightly. "I'm sorry, okay? But I just can't believe you told on me like that. God, 'told on me,' that sounds so juvenile," she adds. She seems out of it – not like she's on drugs, or anything, but rather like she isn't fully awake. She shakes her head quickly. "I told you that in private," she says, her voice tight and sounding close to tears. "And you said you knew I was joking. You pretty much promised to let it go. You even said you thought I would be fine. I don't know, Hannah. I…I trusted you. And you went behind my back. That was a really shitty thing to do."

I definitely don't remember promising anything of the sort. "I was worried about you," I snap. "You were a complete mess that night. And you want to talk about 'shitty things to do? I know you were pissed, but icing me out all week? Unfriending me on Facebook? That's not okay. You can't just do that to people. It's horrible. I mean, you say you hate it when your parents treat you like you don't exist, but that's exactly what you did to me. Don't you see how hypocritical that is?" I sigh heavily, gathering my thoughts. "I don't think I can be friends with you anymore if you keep doing this."

Jessa flinches, but recovers quickly. "Yes, I kind of got that from your messages," she says coolly. This surprises me. So she did listen to them. "So, I guess I'm sorry for trying to help you. Don't worry. I will never do it again! Have a nice life, Jessa." She repeats the message so accurately that I'm almost 100% positive she listened to it more than once.

"I'm sorry," I say, tears suddenly leaping to my eyes. "But you ignoring me like that? It hurt. It hurt a lot."

Jessa's expression softens slightly. "Yeah, well…What you did hurt, too."

"I know you probably don't remember much of that night," I say, "but you were definitely breaking down. I just want you to be okay, that's all."

Jessa stares at me for several seconds. "I really am okay," she says. "I mean, I probably don't seem very okay, but…" she pauses. "You know, maybe I'm not," she says, looking down at the carpet. "I've been kind of a mess since that party. I haven't slept. Barely eaten, either. But I'm…I'm going to be okay eventually. I'm working on it," she says.

I sit down next to her. "Yeah, I've kind of been a mess too," I say. "I'm pretty sure Marnie was ready to call my parents and tell them I was back to freshman year, second semester Hannah and then I'd have to move back home."

She laughs weakly. "Shit, I missed you. I'm sorry I was such a bitch."

I clear my throat. "Yeah, me too." I grab her hand.

"I just…feel like everything's out of control sometimes. Like I'm totally losing my mind," Jessa says. "And it's like… everything I do just doesn't really matter, because no matter what I do, I'm just going to end up like my mum."

"I know," I say. "I definitely feel like that too. All the time, actually. But, um…" I continue. "I know you don't feel like you matter to your parents, but you still do matter. And I would be really…sad if anything happened to you."

She smirks. "Wow, Hannah, that was really cheeseball." I feel myself blush. Screw her right now. I'm trying to be nice here. "But, thanks," she says.


End file.
